The fish market lay between the Seal Gate and the outer harbor. Beyond the gate, the Seal Rocks guarded the navigable channel; nearby, fishing boats landed their catches close enough for fishermen and dealers to set up on the open ground. Fish wanted by wealthy households went straight to their kitchens. The rest lay on tables and mats for anyone with money to choose from.
Carts selling cooked food lined the approaches.
“Try the squid,” Oliver said.
“This fish, Master. They cook it like this at home.”
“And those shrimp. Look at those.”
They had barely entered the market before becoming thoroughly occupied. Kellan surrendered first, rubbing his stomach.
“I can't. No more.”
“Keep at it. A warrior needs an appetite.” Oliver tried to sound stern, though he still hadn't finished the little squid on his own skewer. Somehow, the remaining mouthful refused to become any smaller.
Then he smelled garlic.
He followed it to a cart with a shallow clay grill. Stones rested among the glowing charcoal, supporting opened oysters beneath little heaps of garlic. A young boy tended the fire with a thin piece of wood.
“Garlic oysters? How much?”
The vendor looked younger than Kellan, perhaps ten, but his gaze was far more practiced than his age suggested. He took in Oliver's white shirt and gray trousers before offering a bright smile.
“Five copper pennies, sir.”
“For one? That buys a pint of ale.”
“Not in White Harbor. Thirteen pennies at the Lazy Eel by Fishfoot Yard. Worst ale in the city, and the oldest prostitutes.”
“You know a fair bit for someone without a whisker on his chin.”
“Just saving you disappointment, sir.”
“Much obliged. Ten oysters, then. Kellan?”
Kellan gave him a silver deer. The boy held it up between two fingers, delighted.
“No change, sir. Would you take two more?”
“Go on.”
He packed the hot oysters into two large leaves, folded them over, and handed them across.
“Good health to you, kind sir.”
Oliver walked away eating. Kellan kept close beside him.
“They weren't worth that much.”
“I know.”
The boy looked puzzled.
“He's younger than you. Out here running his own stall. Not stealing, not begging. Worth encouraging.”
Kellan had only meant to protect the purse. If his teacher knew what he was paying for, there wasn't much to argue about.
They wandered through the market until neither could consider another bite, then turned toward the inn. Passing the oyster cart again, Oliver saw two tattooed men in shabby clothes speaking to the young vendor. He took them for acquaintances until one kicked the cart over.
Charcoal scattered across the ground. The boy rushed the nearer man with his fists clenched. He was shoved down and held there while the men struck him.
If they had all been strangers, Oliver might have sighed and walked on. But he had spoken to this child. He stepped between them and pushed the men away.
“What's going on? Why are you hitting him?”
His height, expression, and the sword at his waist persuaded them to stop. The rounder of the pair looked him over.
“Outsider. Men who live long in White Harbor know something. Know what?”
“What?”
“Keep out of other people's business.” He shoved Oliver in the chest. “Get lost.”
Oliver caught his wrist and turned to the boy.
“Why are they hitting you?”
The child sat with his teeth pressed into his lip and said nothing.
The thinner man answered for him. “Anyone trading here pays the Eelmen. He doesn't want to pay. What would you have us do?”
“Thirty pennies a day,” the boy said. “That's what Grandfather paid. Now you want a silver deer.”
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“Old Barret's dead. And if he weren't, it'd still be a silver deer.”
Oliver looked around. The other vendors called to customers, took payment, counted change. Their eyes kept moving toward the overturned cart. None came forward to explain the usual rate or offer an objection.
The sum wasn't the important part. These men could demand it, and everyone here knew it. Oliver suspected that the trouble had begun when somebody saw the silver coin he'd given the boy.
“Kellan. Another deer.”
He took the coin and held it out.
“His fee for today.”
The heavier man sneered and grasped it, but Oliver kept his hold. The man's eyes lifted to his face.
“That settles it? No more trouble for him?”
“For your sake. Today.”
Oliver released the silver. The man blew across it, held it to his ear, and put it away.
“Lucky boy.” He turned toward the child. “Understand this. You trade because we say you trade. If we say stop, you're finished. Look around. Plenty would put a cousin or a brother in your place before the ashes cooled.”
He tapped his temple and walked away with his companion.
The boy stood his cart upright. He began gathering oysters from the dirt and putting them back on the dead grill. Mud and water covered the shells. He worked as though neither Oliver nor the money existed.
“Not even a thank-you?” Oliver asked. “A silver deer isn't nothing.”
“I didn't ask you to pay.”
Kellan bristled. “He helped you. You might—”
Oliver stopped him.
“Can't do much business like this. What about showing us around? You know the city. Call the silver your wages in advance.”
The boy considered it with his head down.
“Only today.”
“And if we want you tomorrow, we pay again.”
“All right.”
He hid the cart in an alley beneath a mat, then led them through the outer harbor.
His name was Tobin. Eleven, though hunger and his small build made him look younger. His grandfather, his only remaining family, had died of illness two weeks before. Neighbors had helped with the burial, which used the little money they had saved.
Since then, Tobin had kept the oyster stall going alone. He gathered the shellfish himself but had to buy garlic and charcoal. More than half his earnings went to the Eelmen. What remained scarcely kept him fed.
The silver Oliver had spent meant a great deal to him. Away from the market, his spirits gradually improved. He talked as he guided them, and by full dark they had worked their way back to Fishfoot Yard.
“You've done well,” Oliver told him. “Meet us here in the morning. Same again. A silver deer.”
Tobin's excitement broke through his businesslike manner.
“Yes. Thank you, scholar.”
He had heard Kellan call Oliver Master and had observed enough of the man's manner to decide that he was a learned traveler. Oliver let the mistake stand.
When the boy had gone, Kellan asked, “Haven't we already seen most of those places?”
“The two men were watching when we left the market. I don't want him going straight back to his stall while they're still thinking about today.” Oliver looked toward the way Tobin had gone. “But he has to eat. A deer doesn't mean much to us. It does to him.”
* * *
At the Silver Salmon, a bard was playing a three-stringed lute. His voice carried a story of Ser Duncan the Tall through the crowded room. Even someone who didn't care about the tale could have listened for the sound alone.
When he finished the first part, the diners applauded. The singer removed his hat, bowed elaborately, and withdrew to a corner.
“Finished already?” Oliver asked over his wine.
“He'll rest a little, then carry on.”
“You know this one?”
“Since I was little. Duncan the Tall commanded the Kingsguard for Aegon the Fifth. Anyone who wants to be a knight grows up hearing about him.”
“What was that business about seven men?”
“A trial of seven.” Kellan scratched his head, arranging the explanation. “If someone accuses you and you say you didn't do it, you can ask for trial by combat. The Seven decide who's right. The accuser and accused fight, or champions fight for them. And if one side thinks it unfair, they can ask for seven instead.”
“What do the gods actually do?”
“Protect the innocent.”
“So the man who wins must be innocent because he's won. And the loser must be guilty.” Oliver took another drink. “Convenient for whoever's biggest and best with a sword.”
He wasn't impressed by the sacred custom, but it raised another question.
“You said northmen follow the old gods. How does it work for them?”
“I don't know about everywhere. White Harbor's different. The Manderlys came from the south, and so do a lot of the people here. More follow the Seven than the old gods.”
Oliver thought he might visit a sept. Being taken for a knight had proved useful, and there had been no examination, certificate, or license to demand of him. If people insisted on placing him in the role, learning something about the faith behind it might help him carry it more convincingly.
The bard returned to his place. The room cheered, and he picked up the story where he had left it.
* * *
Tobin was waiting for them the next morning with clean hair and freshly washed skin. He had changed his clothes too. They were patched and not quite dry, but he had plainly done everything he could to be ready for the job.
He bowed, hand to chest.
“Good morning, scholar. Where would you like to go?”
“The septs. We'd like to pray.”
“May the Seven watch over you. The biggest is the Snowy Sept, by the inner harbor...”
With Tobin explaining as they went, Oliver visited the white-stone sept and several smaller places of worship in the neighborhoods around it. Afterward, he sent Kellan to continue the search for a ship to King's Landing. Tobin led him instead to the street where the silversmiths worked.
White Harbor had mines as well as its port. Gold was found with the silver in its territory, and the city supported a substantial trade in working and exchanging both. Oliver still had the hundred Azeroth gold coins he had brought out of the forest. He wanted local dragons for them. Constantly arguing over the value of an unfamiliar coin would become tiresome.
Tobin grew quieter as they entered the district. Guards stood at corners, and people passed in clean, expensive clothes. Beside them, his patched garments marked him out. Without Oliver, he might have been put back out of the area before he reached a shop.
Oliver touched his back.
“Stand straight. You're with me today. Look as though you belong.”
The boy straightened. Oliver's tone was firmer than it was harsh, and the tension in Tobin's face eased.
“That's better.”
The shops looked much alike. Tobin knew no more about choosing one than Oliver did, so Oliver picked a frontage he liked and went inside.
An old man sat behind a roughly barred counter, working a thin strip of silver. He put his tools down at Oliver's greeting.
“Can you change foreign gold for dragons?” Oliver asked.
“From where?”
Oliver handed him a coin. “Have a look.”
The man examined it closely. “I know the rates for the usual coins. Never seen this. May I test it?”
“Please.”
He filed a little from its edge, weighed it, and returned it.
“A dragon and a half.”
“What if I have more?”
“Lower, if there are a great many. Rarity has a value too.”
“I'll think about it.”
Oliver went from shop to shop. The offers were much the same. The best was one and seven-tenths dragons for an Azeroth coin. There wasn't much extra to be gained by treating them as curiosities, and ease of spending mattered more to him now. He chose the highest offer and arranged to bring the rest of the coins the following morning.